While I torment her, I eye the guitar propped against the wall. I’ve made a mistake. I chose poorly. It isn’t about what your hear, it’s how you feel, the stirring of emotions. I don’t get it with the cello. The connection isn’t there. I’m agitated, detached.

My fingers want to dance on the strings and slide between the frets.

“Mum,” I say, as she drives me home. “I don’t want to do this any more.”